


Ereskigal's Plague

by LayALioness



Series: Stories of Mine (myths, re-imagined) [6]
Category: Mesopotamian Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5308043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ereshkigal is nineteen when the pirate comes to her island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ereskigal's Plague

Ereshkigal was born on an island that was more graveyard than anything else, filled with the dead who were buried, and the dead who were waiting in line.

She was raised by an old man who was made up of wrinkles, and an old woman who kept sweets in the pockets of her apron, for when Ereshkigal was good.

She was never really sure where her parents were, or why they weren’t with her, or what they were doing while they were away. The old woman gave her letters she claimed were sent by her father, but the words rang false when she read them. She took to tearing them up and feeding the scraps to the dogs, which made them sick and cough blood. She painted the walls with it, coating her fingers until she thought the stain might never wash out.

The island was small, as far as islands go, and it was the entirety of Ereshkigal's world. She'd sit on the dunes and let the waves lap at her ankles, and watch the ships ebb in and out, their different colored flags flickering like scarves or maybe collars, marking them as pets, owned by someone bigger. There was always someone bigger, Ereshkigal had learned. And they were usually holding a leash, just waiting for you to turn your head, so they could slip it round your neck.

Ereshkigal’s sister was younger than her, and prettier than her, and louder than her, and more well-liked. She used to start war with the servant boys, and make two of them carry her on their shoulders while she wore Ereshkigal’s scarf like a crown. She would shout her own name as a battle cry, and leap into the air until everyone was watching. 

She would kiss the boys after, in the closets and in between bookshelves, while Ereshkigal read and pretended not to hear.

Her sister only ever came for the summers, before going back to the mother Ereshkigal did not share. She called her  _Resh_ , and kissed her cheeks, and sometimes her hand, like the prince in those stories, the ones her sister liked to hate.

"I’m tired of hearing about locked-away damsels. Just once I wish the princess would save herself."

But Ereshkigal liked the stories. She liked the pictures of handsome boys with pale skin and hair and eyes like the sky. She liked the heroes, slaying dragons and carrying maidens to safety in their arms. She liked the romance of it all, the idea that a kiss might prove stronger than death.

But she had never been foolish, not even as a girl. She knew better than Sleeping Beauty, and all the other fair-haired, blue-eyed maidens who just laid out in their nice dresses, waiting for their rescue to come. She knew there were no gentle-faced boys, waiting to save her. She knew nothing beat death, in the end.

Ereshkigal was nineteen when the pirate came to her island.

He brought with him a sickness her people could not escape. They were not warriors, they were unprepared, and weary, and one by one she watched them fall to the ground like dead insects, like a Biblical plague.

The old man and woman were the last two to go. Ereshkigal painted their names in their blood, black and thickened. She licked the pestilence from her fingers, letting it poison her lips, but she did not die. Death recognizes its own kind.

The pirate stood on the mountain of corpses, looking dashing in his bronze buckle boots, his hair wet from the ocean. He said "We might as well marry, you know," when he forced his way through Ereshkigal’s gates. "Then the war will be over, and we will rule--you will be a queen."

But when he said  _a_ queen, he really meant  _mine_ , and Ereshkigal didn't like the sound.

He thought himself the hero, and her the princess locked away.

But he was wrong, in the end. Ereshkigal had never been the damsel. She had never been distressed.

The chains kept around her were meant to keep her from getting out. 

She was the dragon, and she brought the pirate to her mouth, and let him taste his own disease, before slicing his throat like a letter.


End file.
